


Growing Heavy for the Vintage

by fayedartmouth



Category: CHAOS (TV 2011)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayedartmouth/pseuds/fayedartmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been one week, maybe two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Growing Heavy for the Vintage

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.
> 
> A/N: I don’t know how this happened. I should warn for a super ambiguous ending with a possible interpretation of character death. I’m sorry! Beta by 

Billy doesn’t know how long he’s been here. It’s been impossible to keep time; there’s no light; no windows. The darkness could be artificial, but Billy can’t know that, locked inside the cell as he is.

It doesn’t help that the concussion he sustained from his capture has him zoning out at random intervals. Sometimes he drifts off to sleep and is only roused by the thudding of his own heart in the barren, dank space.

He thinks it’s been a week, maybe two. Long enough to feel the weight of isolation, to talk to himself in the dimness just to stay sane. He goes over all the tricks he’s learned at the Agency. He recites Shakespeare to himself and does his best to remember John Donne’s poetry.  
 _  
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally.  
_  
He remembers every mission he’s been on, from the good to the bad to the downright horrible. He recounts every item of evidence levied against him before they’d kicked him out of the UK and burned him. He remembers every birthday, every bar fight, every woman he’s kissed.

When he runs out of memories, he thinks about the things he’s supposed to be doing. He thinks about his team, and how Michael probably isn’t sleeping, about how Casey is probably shaking down every asset and Rick is almost numb with fear. He thinks they’ll come; they have to come.

But it’s been one week, maybe two, and Billy’s hurting and sore. They take him from the cell and beat him, mocking him as he hangs by his wrists, naked and exposed while they pelt questions in a dialect he doesn’t know. They don’t really want answers; they just want _him._

It could be ransom; it could be some idea of vengeance. It could be penance for the crimes he’s committed, and Lord knows Billy has committed many. He’s not a good man, and the fact that this lot is worse isn’t much consolation.

Alone in the dark, it’s not much consolation at all.

Still, it’s been one week, maybe two, and Billy’s hungry. He has to relieve himself in the open drain in the middle of the cell, leaving the confined space rank with his own excrement. He can’t sleep stretched out, so he huddles in on himself, tucking his bare knees against his bruised chest, slipping in and out of consciousness until they come again.

It’s been one week, maybe two, and Billy’s alone. They try drugs next, adrenaline to keep him awake and hallucinogens to make him talk. And Billy does talk. He talks about the time he broke his arm when he was little, about his first fight on the playground, about the first girl he loved in university. It’s not what they want to hear. 

And time passes. The darkness stretches; consumes. Billy can feel his ribs against his bony knees, just like he can feel the broken bones in his right hand. He has a short beard now, and his hair feels grimy with sweat and blood. It hurts to swallow, and he hasn’t had to go to the bathroom in hours; days; he’s not sure.

But it’s been a week, maybe two. When the door finally opens, the light almost blinds him. He expects to be hauled up, but this time someone lingers in the doorway. The man smirks, setting down a dish with a piece of steak and a pile of mashed potatoes, placing a large cup next to it.

“You look hungry, my friend,” he says in heavily accented English.

Billy thinks he could be imagining things and doesn’t dare move.

“This is our finest meal, served usually only to respected guests and important business colleagues,” he explains. He tips his head to the cup. “And our best wine, just for you.”

Billy’s stomach grumbles audibly, and his parched tongue almost aches.

“You may eat as much as you wish,” the man explains. “But do understand, you will die after one bite. It has all been laced with a poison that will work quite effectively to seal your miserable fate.”

With that, the man stands, leaving Billy gaping on the floor. He smiles down at Billy wickedly. “Eat and enjoy,” he says. “Or I will be back to see you soon.”

With that, the man leaves and the cell shuts, casting a dark pall on the cell again. In front of him, Billy can still see the meal in the paltry light -- more than that, he can smell it. The aroma is fresh and warm, and he can smell the seasoning on the steak, the blood still warm on the plate. The potatoes smell of butter, cheese, and chives. He can even smell the wine, its bouquet robust and complex. 

Billy almost cries. He’s so hungry; he wants to eat so badly. Maybe it’s a trick; maybe there is no poison. Maybe they just want him to think that; maybe it’s just more mind games. He could eat and show them; he could eat and prove he’s smarter.

Or he could eat and die.

Desperate, he leans down, trying to get a better sense. Nothing appears off, but in the dimness, it’s hard to tell. But, broken as his nose is, he can still smell, and beneath the succulent aromas, there’s the distinct smell of bitter almonds.

Cyanide. Cyanide smells like bitter almonds. If that’s the case, the man was telling the truth: this would be Billy’s last meal. And Billy’s no quitter; he can’t let them take him, not like this. He can’t go out on their terms; he can’t go out desperate and broken, suicide by absolute desperation.

But it’s been one week, maybe two, and he can’t take much more of this anyway. He’s probably going to die, no matter what he does. If his team comes, they’ll find nothing but a body, and he’s already destined to be a star on the wall.

It can’t hurt.

It _will_ hurt.

This time, Billy does cry, curling over and hugging himself desperately. It’s been one week, maybe two, and he’s given all he has. He’s done everything he can. And he’s tired and he’s hurt and he’s scared and he’s _hungry._

He’s so _damn hungry._

He closes his eyes and tries not to breathe, tries not to think about the meat invigorating his taste buds, the warm potatoes sliding down his throat, filling his rankled stomach before the wine drowns it all -- drowns everything.

Eyes open, Billy can see the plate. His fingers reach out shakily, grasping the cup. When he lifts it, the richness of the scent almost makes him cry all over again. He presses the cup to his mouth, feeling the cool metal as he closes his eyes. 

He just wants to smell; he just wants to be sure, even as the liquid sloshes toward his cracked lips. 

It’s been one week, maybe two, but he knows he won’t be here much longer.

One way or another.

And when Billy goes to sleep, he can still taste the bitter almonds, heavy and satisfying on his tongue.


End file.
